


A Hard-Won Peace

by freakylemurcat



Series: A Truce with Benefits [1]
Category: The Transformers (IDW Generation One), Transformers - All Media Types, Transformers Generation One
Genre: Alternate Universe, Booty Calls, Come Marking, Come as Lube, Desk Sex, Dirty Talk, Large Cock, M/M, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Rough Sex, Sticky Sexual Interfacing, Valve Fingering (Transformers), Valve Play (Transformers), sending a subordinate to fuck your BF because you can't take the time off work
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-21
Updated: 2019-07-21
Packaged: 2020-07-10 02:15:57
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,155
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19898227
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/freakylemurcat/pseuds/freakylemurcat
Summary: Locked doors had never been a deterrent for Jazz. His closest friends should have known this. (Optimus Prime totally did.)The Decepticons should have definitely known it. (Megatron locked his doors for a reason.)





	A Hard-Won Peace

This uncertain peace was unexpected but badly needed. Both factions had ground deeply into desperation, separated from starvation or permanent injury by a few hoarded resources. It had been more obvious than ever that a truce was the only way for any of them to survive. 

Optimus and Megatron had bartered it out between them. No other mech had been party, not even their respective seconds. There had been some seething about this, not entirely unwarranted until Jazz had pointed out the telltale paint scuffs on both parties in question at a recess. He had made a suggestion that unless Prowl or Starscream really wanted to be in the middle of a tank/convoy sandwich maybe they should stop complaining. 

The complaining had only gotten worse, and Jazz had laughed so hard he had been evicted from the announcement of one of the only ceasefires prompted by a good frag. 

So it was a strange peace, wherein the factions attempted to ignore and court each other simultaneously, totally not precipitated by their leaders. Jazz had suspicions about how long it would last - probably until the first lover's spat, he thought rather uncharitably - but he was nothing if not adaptable. His speed and gregarious nature, accompanied with a talent for secret keeping, made him a good messenger between his Prime and the Decepticon scum that Optimus was still not openly admitting to fragging. 

* * *

Just because Optimus was not admitting to fragging Megatron - even though he obviously was, or at least wanted to be - didn't mean he was restraining himself from fragging anybody else.

Not for the first time did Jazz find himself, legs spread, under the weight of a convoy truck, gasping at the wash of overload through his valve nodes. Atop him, the Prime frowned with concentration as he ploughed Jazz' valve, optics distant; perhaps like he was imagining sharing this overload with another mech. Jazz didn't mind: he was the one benefitting after all.

When he came too, he was sprawling on Optimus' desk, a mess between his thighs and the boss looking far too pleased with himself in his chair. There was a single datapad balanced carefully on Jazz' chest plates and he plucked it up curiously.

"Now, now," rumbled Prime, even more bass than normal. Jazz allowed himself to melt a bit at the sound, wondering if Prowl could be persuaded to stop his petulant refusal to leave his office and come help work off a little extra steam. "That is for Megatron's optics only. Urgently, Jazz, if you don't mind."

Jazz peeled himself off the desktop and grimaced at the shift of fluids in his valve. "I gotta visit the washracks first..."

Optimus stood up, slow and deliberate, leaning down into Jazz' space in a way that gave him all sorts of terrible, amazing ideas. " _Urgently_ , Jazz, I'm afraid."

* * *

Well, when asked so nicely, Jazz couldn't help but come over all obedient. He quit the Ark at speed and made the cross country drive and dive to the 'cons sunken base at record speed. 

Even though technically the truce allowed either side access to their opposing side, some areas remained understandably out of bounds. The command centre of either base was high on the list of such places, but that didn't stop Jazz. He dropped from a vent, and landed on the ostentatious throne with a huff of his vents. Few mechs were still in the centre - a few stuck on monitor duty, supervised by the imposing silent monolith that was Soundwave. The look of mildly disgruntled exasperation was evident on the mech's face even through the visor and battlemask, and Jazz risked a cheeky wave in greeting.

"Gotta a message for the ol' Slagmaker," said Jazz, crossing his pedes and wriggling back into the seat. For such an opulent monstrosity, it was remarkably uncomfortable; he wondered briefly if anyone had ever fragged on it. "Dare I ask where he is?"

Soundwave looked at him for a long time, then extended a long arm and pointed. "Lord Megatron: on off-shift, in own quarters." He paused, and then added, "Autobot Jazz can find his own way, no doubt."

Autobot Jazz grinned and clambered back into his shadows, creeping through vents and corridors until he was outside Megatron's quarters and faced with a slab of a lock. This did not put him off in the slightest, and the door pinged and creaked in response to his cables and picks. At the hiss of capitulation, Jazz disconnected his tools and slipped through the gap the moment before the lock reactivated and slammed the door shut.

He had been imagining surprising Megatron while he was busy, but the mech is not to be found in his anteroom. Jazz paused to bounce on the comfy looking chair in the corner and pluck up one of the ancient datapads beside it. It was all ancient poetry of the sort that toed the line between sappy and saucy. Of course the old tyrant would read something like this.

A quiet noise, a sigh of vents and the shiver of armour, caught the attention of Jazz' sensitive audials and he honed in on the sounds through another doorway. Maybe he would get the drop on Megatron half out of recharge and prove to himself that he could - at least theoretically - assassinate the mech in his berth. 

He slipped through the doorway and suddenly assassination was very far from his processor.

The great gunmetal grey bulk of Megatron's frame was sprawled out on a huge berth, legs spread, torso slumped back into a small raft of pillows. Dark optics only flickered online when Jazz could not hold back his small noise of surprise. "Huh." 

Megatron's huge fist was curled loosely around one of the biggest spikes Jazz had ever seen. He had fragged a triple-changer once, and even then he remains impressed. 

Maybe peace had been more hard-won than he had thought. No wonder Optimus was fragging everything that moved if he couldn't get access to that thing on the regular.

The mech made a disgruntled noise, but made no effort to cover up. Jazz really had no complaints: it was a very nice spike, with glossy platelets, brightly glowing nodes, all curved upward in symmetrical geometric arrogance. It suited its owner.

"Another letter from the Prime," Jazz said instead, un-subspacing the datapad Optimus had handed to him after their meeting. "He said it was urgent." 

"Doorbells still work, regardless of urgency," rumbled Megatron. "Perhaps you could have knocked and saved yourself an optic-ful." 

Jazz shrugged and threw the datapad so it landed on the berth-top beside the mech. "You know, Prime said the same thing when I walked in on him this morning." 

How had he been meant to know the Prime's comm'd summons had not been for immediate actioning? And he had been bored - Prowl was still sulking, Ironhide had been eyeing some Constructicons and even the twins had been engaging in some new and obscene form of Jet Judo. Ending up under Optimus, driven hard and put away wet, had been a pleasant surprise.

Locked doors had never been a deterrent for Jazz. His closest friends should have known this. 

The Decepticons should have definitely known it.

Megatron sat up slightly, servo finally dropping away from his spike. A new interested glow entered his optics, dark and hungry. Jazz felt his armour shiver with the sight. 

"You make a habit of ogling your leader?" 

Jazz shrugged aimlessly. "Ain't nothing wrong with lookin'"

"Hah. And that was all you did?" The mech snorted, flushing dust from each of his vents. "Tame. I thought you were a risk taker, little spy."

Now, Jazz was no stupid mech, not inclined to let himself be goaded, but there was little wrong with allowing himself to be tempted occasionally. And hell, it would be some serious boasting criteria to frag both faction leaders in the same cycle. Prowl would be _livid_ with jealousy.

"Ain't said nothing about _just_ looking," he said. 

"So what did you do?" questioned the Decepticon, once again looking deeply and hungrily interested. His servo slid over the joint of his thigh, rubbing the cables of his hip. "Offer your services?" 

Jazz smirked. "I got a lotta services to offer."

Megatron rumbled, something more akin to an earthquake than a laugh, and plucked up the datapad. "Chief amongst those is attitude, I suspect."

The mech's attention drifted to the message and remained there. Jazz deflated, suspecting the potential for getting laid a second time that cycle was swiftly fading. The drive back to the Ark would take so _long_ , and unless Jazz could maybe lure in Soundwave for a quickie he would be out of luck. A shame...His valve was still so slick and hot, and the wash of excitement of his travel and infiltration had turned his fuel to sparks.

His fans clicked on, a soft whirr that shivered his frame, and he didn't bother to dampen them. Sometimes life was too short to play it cool. 

There was another rumble from Megatron's systems, as the mech dropped the servo with the datapad and fixed his gaze on his unexpected guest. "Well?"

Briefly confused, Jazz stared back in silence. The mech's spike had barely lost any pressure, he realised, still jutting up hungrily and every node glowing bright. It remained tempting. 

"Aren't you going to elaborate on your other skills, little spy?"

As far as Jazz was concerned, one of his best skills was his agility. He was happy to show off as he hopped up onto a berth that was nearly as tall as his midriff and crawled between behemoth thighs. This position brought him up close and personal with the mech's spike, and it was even nicer up close; it brushed up against the slope of his belly as he clambered into the bowl of Megatron's lap, and then sprung free when he lifted himself up. The hot weight of it settled comfortably, familiarly, against his curve of his aft.

"Make your complaints now," Megatron growled. Heat blasted off him like a furnace, and Jazz' cooling fans spun harder to cope. 

"What complaints might I have?" He wriggled down, ostensibly making himself comfortable astride the massive mech but mostly just making a nuisance of himself. That spike nudged up against his aft tighter and Megatron's great industrial engines turned over with a frame-shaking snarl.

"I suspect most bots might have concerns about being atop the leader of their enemy," suggested Megatron, all basso rumble and teeth. 

"I ain't most mechs," said Jazz. "And there's the truce." 

"Optimus said as much." Megatron suddenly surged upwards, Jazz leant instinctively back until he was caught around the nape of the neck by a massive servo. The datapad dangled in the other, and quick optics spotted his own name plastered across the message Optimus had sent him with, a full filthy description of their clinch. "He said you were too nosy for your own good. Can't leave anything alone can you, little spy?" 

"I'm good at what I do for a reason," said Jazz. 

"Would you be as good at riding my spike as you were riding _his_?" 

When Jazz got back to the Ark there would be a reckoning; a nice friendly chat about the appropriateness of sending your subordinates hundreds of miles across the planet as a stand-in for a booty call. But for now he squirmed in place, eager. "Mech, I'm a fraggin champion." He added "Although, ya might have to put in some preparation first."

The datapad was sent spinning across the berth and Jazz' hips were grasped in heavy fists, big enough to crush his armour and bend his struts. Without much of a command from his higher processors, his interface covers transformed away, leaving him bare and vulnerable. His calipers were already trying to shift and clench around their expected prize, and tracks of lubricant slipped across the petals of his valve and down his inner thighs. Megatron's big servos traced down his legs with the same gentle pressure, digit tips petting down his inner seams. 

It was disconcertingly gentle, not what Jazz imagined when his hip joints were spread so wide across a mech's lap they were strained, and he was not sure whether he really wanted it like that. For gentle, he could go to any number of Autobots. Why else let Lord Megatron, scourge of a significant part of the known galaxy, frag you except to destroy a few fuses? To show his own intentions he leant forward and bit at Megatron's mouth plates, digging his digits into the broad chest in front of him. The ‘con grunted, but his lips curved in a smile. 

"Demanding," he growled, but the word was no negative. There was a pleasure in his tone and one of his thumb digits trailed down the centre of Jazz' valve mesh, a soft pressure that did little more than spread the folds apart a little more. In comparison, his kiss was nearly violent, teeth clashing with Jazz', glossa pushing into his intake, like he was trying to devour Jazz whole. This was the sort of thing that Jazz had wanted from the nanoklik he had seen that brutal spike, the impact of being worked over by such a monster.

Even the digits rubbing across his mesh were huge, thick and brutal, designing for bearing the brunt of jackhammers and pickaxes. Jazz spread his thighs a little more, and encouraged the touch with a groan. His valve was soaking wet, thick trickles of Optimus' transfluid slicking the way even more than his natural lubrication. There was no missing the way Megatron's optics followed the droplets when the kiss broke, nor the way his field roiled with lust at the sight.

"You really weren't just looking at all, were you?" murmured Megatron, almost thoughtfully rubbing his digits together.

Jazz grinned and grabbed at the servo in question, driving it down keenly to cup over the front of his array again, palm rubbing pressure over his anterior node and spike housing. "Ya wanna know what he did to me?"

Megatron's engine roared again and his optics glowed like bonfires. A single digit slipped past the outer rings of Jazz' valve, shoved deep inside him without so much as a warning, and he could barely squeak a response before the 'con is growling, " _Tell me._ "

Jazz told him, gasped out the whole sordid affair; how he had blundered in on a very similar situation to the one that had gotten him right here, and how he had ended up on his back amid the wreckage of Optimus' desk. How his boss had covered him and fragged him stupid, and then sent him on his way - soaked with his transfluid on purpose. Throughout, huge digits stroked up and into his valve, in a slow firm mimicry of the thrusts he was describing, almost unerringly finding the nodes that Optimus had dragged his spike over. Megatron's frame blasted boiling heat into the space between them, and Jazz' vents choked on the mineral-laden steam until his voice started to waver.

There were three thick digits deep in his valve now, flexing and thrusting, stroking up and down the patterns in his mesh, and a big thumb digit pressed tight to his anterior node in agonising little circles. He was nanokliks off an overload, closer if he could shift his hips down a little more, but Megatron seemed one step ahead and the instant Jazz' charge threatened to boil up and over his servo creaked into perfect stillness. Jazz was trapped and frustrated.

"Now, now." Megatron's voice was smugness and self-satisfaction personified. If he wasn't in possession of the spike currently rubbing against Jazz' thigh in such a tempting fashion, Jazz would rip his miserable vocaliser out. As it was, slightly demented with his lust, he merely snarled and dug digits into the ridges of heavy carburettors. "Why rush things, my friend? Let me show you what a true mech can do to you in the berth..."

He had thought he was frustrated before! Now he was reduced to a hissing, steaming, overheated mess, grinding his hips down onto digits and being denied his overload again and again. Was it some sort of twisted oneupmechship, a game between their leaders? Jazz supposed he should probably vouch for Optimus' skill, but that would require an extra byte of processing power he no longer held.

Also, it had to be said it had been a while since Optimus had done much more than bend him over the nearest flat surface and frag him silly, evidently a result of his own frustrations. Jazz would be going home with _suggestions_.

Briefly distracted by the thought of the boss doing this to him, keeping him pinned and open and whining for more, Jazz nearly missed the next aborted overload. Megatron grumbled, somehow sensing his distraction, and doubled his efforts. This time around the sear of charge was unavoidable and huge, each sensor and capacitor primed for it. Not even Megatron's stop-start rhythm was match for the skyrocketing of his charge. Even the thrum of his huge engines and the boil of his EM field was just sensation enough to push Jazz onwards. Climax took him, sending him gasping and writhing in the unbreakable grasp about his leg, and he dug his digits hard enough into the mech's belly to elicit a grunt.

For a moment, Megatron allowed him some free reign, releasing his thigh and slithering his other servo free; Jazz sprawled forward onto an overheated chest plate and tried to reset his spinning gyroscopes, shivering at each spontaneous clench of his valve calipers. WIthout anything to squeeze against it wasn't half as satisfying, and he still had spare charge humming through his wires, the build-up from the cycle too much to be burnt away all at once.

"Come on mech," Jazz grumbled petulantly, "Don't leave me hanging. Majorly uncool."

"Says the mech who's already gotten his." But Megatron grasped his hips again, shuffled his own thighs further apart and hitched his hips a little higher. His spike bumped neatly to where it wanted to go.

Offense was easy to mimic. "I got on here for your spike, and I ain't leavin' til I got what I want." He revved his engine, a tenor note to the thunder of Megatron's.

The grip around his hips threatened to become crushing, and the smile on the old slagger's face was nigh on threatening. "If you are not careful, spy, you'll get what you want." His voice was soft, almost drowned out by the rumble of engines and hiss and squeal of hydraulics, but still deadly. His grip shunted down, so the first measure of his spike stretched the rim of Jazz' valve in a sudden twinge, and then plucked him back up again.

And, even though Jazz' libido thought getting grabbed about the waist and lifted up and down on a thick spike like some sort of cheap frag-toy was wildly attractive, his processors suggested that maybe that was a scene more designed for a mech who might not crush him to death. Something to raise with Ironhide maybe, or Skyfire if he could be dragged away from Starscream's pretty aft for a joor or so...

"On second thought, maybe you just sit back, relax, and let me do what I do best." 

Megatron merely smirked, which was bad enough, but Jazz was just too keen for that spike in question. He was open and slick and almost aching with the need, so he reached back and tilted the whole thick length to just the right angle to rest back on. The tip eased forward on a long swipe against his mesh, spreading the folds and bumping up against his node in a way that made all his pelvic components seize and jerk. It was delicious the next time, the ridges of the biosensors adding pressure and friction to his otherwise slick mesh, and then - just as Megatron's engines start to sound like he might burst a gasket - Jazz tilted his tips just so and the spike slipped past the outer ring of his valve again.

The slide was deep and all encompassing and just the right side of painful. Jazz's cooling fans wailed as they worked hard, and he was reduced to panting to cool the delicate component of his helm. 

He made it only a short distance on the first pass, trembling at the initial stretch, but he was expert enough to know to ease up and try again. Each slow dip allowed another few platelets to slip in, and soon he was halfway down and half-broken already.

" _Now_ you show patience," sneered Megatron, and Jazz growled back in wordless aggravation but spread his thighs a little more and sank deeper and deeper in an inexorable push. Megatron's helm fell back, and he groaned once, his huge fists squeezing Jazz' hips enough to make his armour creak. Nothing put Jazz off this time, and his aft met the bowl of the warlord's thighs comfortably. His valve was just perfectly stretched, every sensor ablaze with sensation from the crushing pressure, and every tremor of either frame shimmied through him.

"What did I say about sitting back and relaxing?" He said and started to use that glorious spike like it was built to be used.

It was simultaneously like and nothing like being fragged by Optimus; the barely controlled power, a hammering force taking and pressing into him for everything his frame could give, but none of the familiarity, no kind bright optics watching his face for a hint of discomfort. In fact, those deep crimson optics seemed disinterested in the expressions he felt pulling at his mouth, more interested in the shadowy gap between their pelvises, where that club of a spike was splitting him open. For his own part, he was happy enough to accept the reality of his partner. If had been any other Decepticon - except Soundwave, who had buttons Jazz was dying to push - Jazz would have made a few wisecracks and escaped but Megatron had been too tempting to pass up on. 

Jazz gave up trying to savour the moment. He braced on that big heavy chest and fragged himself raw on that glorious spike, until the slick noises of friction were obscene and thick lubricant was running down the inside of his thighs. 

He eased up again and dropped down, shivering as the thick pressure seemed to sweep along every sensor he possessed. Shivering made the task more tricky, but he was persistent and the reward was delightful, a sweeping cresting burn through his sensor net. From his perch, he could grope a lot of frame as well - Megatron had a big broad chest, not curvy like Prowl's but a good place to place palms and brace nevertheless. His trim carburettors burnt with displaced heat, and he had lovely bulky forearms, big strong thighs, his whole frame spread out for Jazz to use.

And, of course, there was the delight that had lured him here in the first instance, that great thick spike. It surged up into his valve as a particularly deep bounce hammered sensors that were normally left well alone. For all Megatron was apparently ignoring him, he appeared to notice the response, and shoved up to meet him on the next downbeat and Jazz arched his spinal struts and yowled his second overload. 

He was a goner. Done for, utterly caught and doomed by the rake of the pleasure and rendered senseless briefly.

This was a mistake. 

The big fist around his waist tightened and grasped and yanked him up and off, tossing him up and over onto the berth. Face plates down in the cold pillow and frame shuddering with the sudden lack of stimulus, he heard the great hydraulic heave of Megatron moving his great carcass to drape across Jazz' back. His spike slotted against the slick ruination of Jazz’ valve, as if hungry for more of what his frame could give. 

"You think you are clever, don't you, little spy?" snarled Megatron, his frame a huge and all-encompassing weight atop and around Jazz. Even if he had wanted to, escape would be nigh-on impossible.

"I did," he said, with little to hide behind except honesty. Static crackled through his voice and rather ruined his unicron-may-care attitude. "Right now, I ain't so sure.."

Somehow the warlord wrapped himself around Jazz tighter, drove his spike in that bit further. Jazz squeaked and crumpled the sheets in his fists.

"Now that is the smartest thing you have said for sometime. Did you think using me would be inconsequential? Perhaps Prime lets you away with murder, but don't expect leniency here!"

He was driven forward onto the berth, whole frame alight with a fresh run of charge, knees quivering as his hydraulic system lost pressure. Megatron's big servos gripped his hips firmly, denting thinner armour and yanking him back into every jarring thrust. Ever sensor was rubbed and battered and screaming with sensation, and soon he was too, sobbing gulping cries for more in a way he hadn't done for some time. 

And Megatron - true to his word - showed no quarter. He held him hard, ignoring when his legs finally gave under the strain and continuing to pound him mercilessly, One of Jazz' hip fuses popped under the pressure, and still the behemoth atop him pumped his spike into his valve, taking more and more from his frame.

Unbidden, Jazz' own spike erupted from its housing, tingling with the sensation of his protoform being battered so thoroughly. At other times, this might have cut his charge in half to split between his active arrays, but so entirely overrun as he was there was no discernable dip. Especially not when it was enveloped in a big fist and stroked in time with the punishing thrusts into his valve. 

Jazz yowled again, engine rocketing at his highest revs, and collapsed further into the touch. The huge palm around his spike was rough and scratched from vorns of hard work, the delicate sensors along his length rubbed and pulled by the friction as a counterpoint to the filling, pushing sensations deep in his valve. 

"I'll take everything you have got, little spy," hissed Megatron in his audial. "You'll get no respite here."

Another fuse popped under the onslaught of pressure and friction, blitzing Jazz's processors with unadulterated signal from his sensors. Distantly, he felt the hot burst of his transfluid tanks releasing, in throbbing aching pulses across a scarred palm, his valve clenching in deep-seated echoes. Alerts shrieked across his processor and his higher processing units dropped offline briefly. 

He was reduced to just senses, no true way to piece them together. There was the weight and pressure of the beast on his back, heat blasting into gawping vents, the roar and squeal of straining engines and the softer sweeter sound of lubricant and the roil and burst of a colossal EM field swallowing him whole. Great, horrible, awesome pressure and friction in his valve, the thump and rock of something striking into every node and just destroying every last bit of him.

His chronometer blipped numbers at him, but it seemed immaterial, his purpose to be slumped here in the grip of something greater and taken, until there was a groan like metal tearing and his highest sensors were bathed in hot, silken fluid in an onslaught of charge, pumping and pumping until it was dripping down his thighs and running across his dipped belly. 

There was just enough of Jazz left to marvel at managing to overload three times in one night, and then everything switched off.

* * *

Jazz rebooted with a groan, and immediately regretted a lot of decisions he had made in the last cycle. He was sprawled face first into the most uncomfortable pillow he had ever had the delight of making the acquaintance of, his back ached, dents stung on his plating and the less said about his pelvic structure the better. 

Someone had manually closed his valve panel and left his spike hanging out. Well then, that was a message if he’d ever seen it. 

"Ah, rejoining the land of the operating?" sneered Megatron from above. "I was starting to fear I would have to call Prime and confess to fragging you into stasis."

"You've dislocated my hip," said Jazz absently. With the ease of experience, he rolled to the side and grimaced as the joint thumped back into place, but when he tried to get up a multitude of systems informed his processor that they needed a few more moments to recover from their abuse. The resulting position was not dignified; knees half tucked under his pelvis and aft raised up accordingly, but it did free a few more vents to suck in cooler air.

Megatron grumbled something and returned his attention to the datapad, typing out a response one digit at a time like the old-timer he was. He finished and scrolled back, reading through his work and nodding with satisfaction as Jazz watched blearily and tried to think up an excuse as to why this simple delivery trip took quite so long and why he was covered in gunmetal grey paint scuffs...

The datapad was placed precisely, delicately at the top curve of his aft, balanced like a work of art. Once the pressure built back up in his hydraulics, he was going to pick the damn thing up and beat the megalomaniac into stasis with it, Jazz decided foggily. By the time he had managed the former, however, some of his ire had died away, if not the ache in his valve. He almost felt perky again, although any sudden movement put paid to that quickly.

He collected the datapad, purposefully didn't pause to look at the unlocked screen, and stowed it safely away. Megatron watched him with a sated, pleased expression, still sprawled out on his berth and looking for the world like some sort of conquering champion.

"Better hit the road," Jazz said cheekily; there was something about the dignity of the mech that made him want to poke and prod. Prowl had always said his worst quality was his inability to leave things well enough alone. "Shall I pass on any regards to the boss 'bot?"

Megatron moved like a lightning bolt when the mood passed him. Jazz had barely time to reset his visor when a big fist had refastened around his throat and the 'con was well into his personal space again, growling words against his lip plates and then tossing him back.

"Tell him next time he sends you he should frag your aft first, or I'll be opening it up myself, little spy."

Jazz might have to restart the war at this rate. He wasn't sure he'd survive peace.

**Author's Note:**

> Jazz goes back to the Ark, recharges most of the day and then coaxes Prowl to join him in preparations for the second leg of courier duty.


End file.
